A Bear Does Not Care

Your mommy says that
you should share your toys fully,
with girls and some boys
though not so with a bully.

But that's 'cause you're human
and must be sophis',
but such is not true
in the dark wilderness.

If you were a cub
deep and snug in the woods,
and had the desire
to selfish your goods,
your momma would only
look down and be smiley,
there'd be no disgraced look
she'd be happy highly.

On no there'd be nothing
resembling a glare,
because simply speaking
a bear does not care.

A bear does not care?
A bear does not care.
Because simply speaking
a bear does not care.

Have you ever wanted
to eat someone's face?
To bite off a leg
just to place in a race?

I bet you your teacher said
that would be dreadful,
she scolded you, yeah man,
she gave you a head full.

But guess what my son?
See that beast by the lake?
If you were her son
you could eat legs like steak.

And why, you may ask
wouldn't that be unfair?
The answer is NO
'cause a bear does not care.

A bear does not care?
A bear does not care.
Because simply speaking
a bear does not care.

Heaven In A Tuba Box

Oh man, I don't usually write in here more than once a day but this is what intelligent people with large, flowing vocabularies call an "extenuating circumstance." However, my vocabulary is not quite as immense so I'm just going to call it "weird."

Anyway, when last we spoke I was going to go get some nachos from the food place and as it turns out, I did. On the way, though, I took a detour through heaven on earth. Now usually people see heaven as a place full of shiny-ness and cloud things and people with little wings and white pantsuits. While that is close to the truth, it's not quite right. It just so happens that heaven is a giant box in which a tuba was shipped but which has had the tuba removed and now all that remains is an ocean of packing peanuts.

Needless to say, I swam in these packing peanuts. The box must have been five to six feet long and two to three feet deep. It was incredible. The box was filled to the brim with packing peanuts and I swam and swam and swam. Eventually, someone came by and told me to stop. I think it was a music professor.

I just thought I'd let you guys know.

Figgle-Eyed Crow

Today was a good day in that I did not forget to wear pants to class. In fact, there has never been an occasion where I have done otherwise so I think that it is safe to say that my entire life has been quite good.

I also made my hair look awesome today. I don't know how I did it but I did it. Unfortunately I messed it up shortly after I styled it because I went in for a closer look in order to bask in its textured goodness and accidentally hit my head on the wall and squished my hair against the mirror. I hadn't the time to fix it so I left the dorm with it as it was and have neglected to attend to it all day.

I also became suddenly very itchy as I left the food court at lunch and I don't know why. This sometimes happens very often.

In genetics today I answered a question regarding regulators and repressor proteins. It wasn't a very difficult questions but the rest of the people in my class are dumbasses and did not know the answer. I'm like the dark horse of the class in that I am a physics major in a crowd of biology majors and I score better than them on exams.

Oh yeah, on the way to class today I saw an old man curse out a crow because he was "figgle-eyed." I don't know what this means exactly, but in my opinion the man was quite figgle-eyed himself. Perhaps he and the crow are brothers. And what about those shirts you used to wear in elementary school that computer nerds in college still wear with the giant picture of an animal like a wolf or a tiger on the front? Supposedly the proceeds from the sale of them goes to helping keep the animal on the shirt from being endangered, or if it already is, keep it from becoming extinct. The trouble with these shirts (and the reason I never got one as a child or as a computer nerd) is that the animals aren't grateful for you donation. No. They are just as likely to eat you if you have one of their shirts on or not. A bear does not care.

Hmm, "A Bear Does Not Care," that's a pretty good title for a poem. I will write it out in it's entirety tomorrow and post it here on my bloggidy blog.

Anyway, tonight I get to go over to the freshman dorm and take part in a membership review board meeting. It's exciting because we get to kick people out of our club. It's sort of like in that Berenstain Bears book "No Girls Allowed" when Brother Bear had that drawbridge he used to keep Sister Bear out of his secret clubhouse. The only difference is that our club doesn't have a drawbridge. And we let girls in. In fact, the president is a girl and so are 90% of the club's members.

Damn. I need to get me a moat.

Hey, I Can Dream

Dear Green Lantern Kyle Rayner,

You are probably my most favorite superhero ever. If you ever get mortally wounded would you please pass your ring of power on to me so that I may become the next Green Lantern?

Thank you in advance for the powers,
Rob

P.S.
I promise not to fuck things up and kill everyone like Hal Jordan.

Flashback Friday: Dick Cheney Stole My Internet (10/15/04)

Haven't done one of these flashbacks in a while, so here goes:

On Wednesday Dick Cheney was here at Allegheny College. He was here to talk about how awesome he is or something. Supposedly Pennsylvania is something called a "swing state" and that means that people here like to hear lies more than people in other states. Wow, that last sentence was actually kind of politically charged--I don't think I've ever said, written, or mumbled under my breath anything politically charged before. Better log this day in my JOURNAL! WOW! That's what I'm doing right now! Holy crap! This is awesome! I'm recording events to be reexamined at a later date! Sweet! So anyway, I thought that the event would be worthy of one of my poems so here it goes. I've been toiling over this one for about three minutes now and I think it's turning out a-okay. Enjoy it or leave:

Dick Cheney came to my school,
Dick Cheney came today,
He brought his thirteen buses,
And then Dick went away.

But nigh before he sped off,
Into the sunset there,
He gave a heartfelt speech here,
and then his pants did tear.

Alright I faked that last one,
But hey it sort of fit,
I couldn't help it sorry,
I'll get on with this shit.

So Dick was here on Wednesday,
The cops were by his side,
This guy had some cool trailer,
Kerry givin' Bush a ride.

The day was not all fun though,
It was no cup of tea,
I had to walk 'round Edwards,
'Round Edwards just to pee.

They closed all of the roads here,
Not one not three but two,
I could not get to class then,
Nigh God could not get through.

I got back to my room then,
My room all warm and snug,
I tried to get my email,
But Dick had pulled the plug.

That's right he took our access,
He took our Internet,
Of course that's just conjecture,
But I'm willing to bet.

Who does he think he is, huh?
Is he so great first rate?
I wish I had a name-gun,
"Dick Cheney" meet your fate.

You might not get that last one,
That stanza's pretty vague,
Unless you're Seth or me my,
Or if you have the plague.

There was this sweet ass protest,
Outside the gym doors lined,
The liberals had these big signs,
And chants that blew my mind.

How could a human think these,
These chants that rocked my world,
"Drop Bush, not bombs" they shouted,
My hair it almost curled.

That's it that's all they've got here?
That's all that they can say?
At least shout out some curse words,
"Hey Bush F*** you, bay-bay."

Of course I am no liberal,
I ain't no Commi none,
Conservative no nothing,
I'm Rob just Rob my son.

But all and all that day was,
Sweet sweeter than sweet sweet,
My poem's almost done now,
Can't b'lieve I kept a beat.

So you know what they say there,
They say just what they say,
The walrus and the carpenter,
In all had one fine day.

Well, that's my poem and I hope you liked it. I have to say that I don't actually know what the word "nigh" means but I like to use it as some kind of negation or a one syllable "nada" or "nothing" or something. When you get down to it though, it doesn't really matter because it's poetry and honestly, how can you criticize something that is defined as "a pile of day old puke not fit for a dung beetle to die in"? That's right--you can't. That's poetry for you. Vomit. Brown, chunky vomit. Take that poetry.

The Spirit of Valentine's Day

Once upon a time there was a boy named Rob. On Valentine's Day he ate so much chocolate that he died. Nobody cared because they were having too much fun eating chocolate.

The day after Valentine's Day the medical examiner performed an autopsy on Rob to see how he had died. She made the first incision, and from the fleshy crevice oozed a thick river of delicious chocolate. She took some on her finger and licked it up and it reminded her of how much she loved Valentine's Day. She then went home.

The morgue night staff continued to use Rob's carcass as a giant chocolate fondue pot, and dipped strawberries in him all night long and into the morning.

As the sun rose over the horizon the next morning, the city dumped Rob's body into a ditch off the highway. After a few hours, a family of raccoons found his body and dragged it into the woods. The mother raccoon birthed her babies in his remains and they fed on the sweet chocolate nectar that dripped from his innards until spring when they left.

Over the months, Rob's body decomposed and returned to the soil. A few weeks later a cocoa plant sprouted from his final resting place and once it had matured, a bear cub strolled by and ate it up.

The bear cub smiled as it chewed. "Mmm...chocolate," he thought.

The End

Happy Valentine's Day!

Fuck Flu!

All the students on campus received this email today from the college health center. I've excluded some of the boring stuff (read: practically all of it), and just left in the meat of the message:

"There is confirmed influenza on campus...It is important to note that influenza in the United States is not the same as the "avian flu" that you have read so much about in the news."

Yeah, that's good stuff.

New Nickname Needed

There's a question that's been bugging me for a few hours now:

How far do you have to be able to throw a pie for your friends to start calling you "Pie Cannon"?

Missiles By Metro

Before I start writing this entry, I just want to make it clear that I am a huge proponent of surface-to-air missiles. Honestly. I believe that there are many tasks where these babies are without a doubt the best suited for the job. Tasks like:

• Blowing up things in the air from the surface.

• Blowing up things in the sky from the ground.

• Blowing up things in the firmament from the earth.

• Blowing up things not on the ground from not in the air.

• The opposite of blowing up things on the surface from the sky.

• Blowing up things in the air from the air and when I say "from the air" I mean "from the ground."

Yeah, surface-to-air missiles = important, especially in this day and age when it's just way too easy for terrorists to yoink airplanes from pilots. Oh, and off subject for a moment, did you know that the word "yoink" actually has a formal definition? Yeah.

Yoink: An exclamation that, when uttered in conjunction with taking an object, immediately transfers ownership from the original owner to the person using the word regardless of previous property rights.

Pretty sweet, huh?

But anyway, the meat of the entry. Regardless of how awesome surface-to-air missiles are, don't we all agree that they should remain in the hands of people we can trust? Yeah, I think so too. So wasn't I surprised when I was riding home from work on the Metro this summer and saw Stinger missiles located at every above-ground Metro station. Does this seem odd to anyone? Does it seem strange that the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority is in possession of surface-to-air missiles with a firing range of 5 miles, a sophisticated tracking ability using infrared radiation sensors, and the ability to hit almost any target with a heat signature with an altitude under 11,000 feet all from a man's shoulder?

Sure, I guess I don't know for sure if these large metal cases with the word "Stinger" written on them in big red block letters actually contain missiles. I suppose they could just be housing giant first aid kits for bee stinger removal in case the entire solar system got stung by bees at the same time. And did you know that killer bees are no deadlier than regular bees!?

But seriously, let's assume that the cases do have Stinger surface-to-air missiles in them. I have to admit that I don't like the idea that our nation's last line of defense against terrorists who want to blow me up are Metrorail drivers. I guess this is in large part due to the fact that Metro drivers do not actually drive the trains. They're kind of like the Queen of England or the King of Spain. Sure, they have fancy names, large, elaborate hats and a seemingly important and influential position, but they don't. They just sit there, smile at people, and walk around a little bit. Sometimes they throw a medal at you if you did something special but when you get down to it, they are the most useless, lazy, good-for-nothing, people in their entire country. I mean, think about it, nobody in their "royal bloodline" has had a real job in hundreds of years.

Do you realize that all Metro trains are controlled by a computer down at Metro headquarters and that the only reason they even need a human being "driving" the train is to open and close the doors and announce what the stops are? That's right. And if you've ever been on the Metro you'd know that these guys can't even do that. I ride the Metro home every day and every day there are at least five people that get crushed by the doors because the driver closes them on them. And what about the other 50% of the driver's job description? They must have that portion mastered, right? Wrong. Have you ever been able to hear what the Metro driver is saying? You know he's supposed to be saying Farragut West so why is it that you could have sworn he just said "Orange Town"? And since when does Smithsonian start with a K? I mean, I can understand screwing up L'Enfant Plaza because that's French. And who really knows how to speak French? Nobody.

The point is, if the government is going to hand out free missiles why did they decide to give them to the WMATA? Getting back to royalty for a moment, isn't it obvious that giving missiles to Metrorail drivers is as stupid as giving them to the Queen of England? I mean, they don't know what to do with them. Queen Elizabeth would probably sit down and have tea with it, put it in a parade, and then give it a medal.

A Little Out Of Our League

This is a conversation I had with a friend the other night. I decided to color code everything. Pretty.

JOHN- rob
JOHN- rob
JOHN- rob
JOHN- rob
JOHN- rob
ROB- what?
JOHN- you need to hook up with this girl (long link #1)
ROB- that's nadine njeim
JOHN- sweet name. how'd you know it?
ROB- john, that's miss lebanon 2004
JOHN- really? i had no idea
ROB- yeah, that's who that is
JOHN- well you're from lebanon
ROB- no i'm not
JOHN- well your family is
ROB- so?
JOHN- that means you've got a pretty good chance
ROB- do you know the population of lebanon?
JOHN- yes
ROB- well?
JOHN- about four million
ROB- lucky guess
JOHN- thank you cia world factbook
ROB- john you need to hook up with this girl (long link #2)
JOHN- that's the chancellor of germany
ROB- you're german
JOHN- i'm going to bed
ROB- goodnight

I'd Like To Thank The Academy

A few days ago the fighters returned (See The Eighth Plague Grandmaster). This time though, I was ready. I had my camera with me and was able to film a short clip of their savage battle squad. The film I made of the whole thing was so great, in fact, that Google Video decided they wanted it up on their site. As such, you can now view it anytime you wish. It's called Ravine Fighters, and it seriously is the breakout film of the year. It features the roommate, yours truly as the narrator, and Mighty Joe Young just to name a few.

Edit: This video is on YouTube too. You might as well just watch it below:

Now Serving Number 4703

The Chinese have just reached the year 4703, but frankly, I'm not impressed. If the Chinese are over 2000 years ahead of the rest of the world, tell me why they have yet to invent rocket boots? Is it because they're lazy? I'm embarrassed for the Chinese. I don't understand how a civilization can claim such supreme oldness and not have the technological advancements to back it up. For God's sake, it's the year 4703! Where's the goddamn DEATHSTAR!?

I ordered some Chinese food the other day and they brought it in those little white foldy buckets with the metal handle. Remember in Back to the Future 2 when Marty goes to his future house and they have that little pizza thing they put in the microwave and after they hit a button they open up the microwave and the little pizza had turned into a regular pizza? Why don't the Chinese have that? Plus, I looked out the window as the delivery dude was driving away and he was in a Toyota Tercel. You'd think that by the year 4703 the Chinese would have stopped buying Japanese cars and have their own Chinese brand jet-cars that fly on pure, unfiltered Communism.

If I were General Tso, I'd be turning in my delicious brown sauce filled grave.

#1 CHINA BUFFET!

Happy Chinese New Year

Garbage Man, M.D.

I've always wanted to pitch an idea to a major television network. I've been rolling an idea for one in my mind for a while now (since sophomore year of high school, I think) and I believe it's turned out well. In my opinion, there are two things that make a great primetime drama. 1) A catchy theme song. 2) An amazing pilot episode.

Luckily, I just happen to have both. Now before I release these to the Internet I would like you to promise to not steal my ideas. Of course, I don't trust you so I am hereby invoking a REAL DEAL COPYRIGHT. Well let's get this thing going.

TITLE: Garbage Man, M.D.
THEME SONG:

He's a Garbage Man...
Who's also a Doctor Man.
He'll sew you up with used dental floss,
And fill your veins with used tomato sauce.

He's the Garbage Man...
Who's also a Doctor Man.
He'll ease your pain
With 10 CC's of cocaine,
He'll beat off the hobos eating your brain,
You'll become his biggest fan...
He's Garbage MAN!!!
M...D...

PILOT EPISODE (Runtime: Approx. 5 minutes):

[Garbage Man M.D. walks into the Mayor's office wearing the skin of a prostitute]

Mayor: What in god's name do you think you're doing, Garbage Man M.D.!?

GM: What does it look like I'm doing? I'm out on the streets saving goddamn lives!

Mayor: You're a garbage man!

GM: I'm a doctor first and I always will be!

Mayor: I don't give a flying fuck if you're a doctor or not! Your methods and tools are dangerous and I won't stand for it! You are a menace and you're endangering countless lives!

GM: I'm SAVING lives you fool! Why do you think I spend so much time in the sewers? It's not so I can bathe in feces, you know. I do it in order to collect the feces and inject it into my patients' bloodstream. Then, maybe, if there's any left I'll bathe in it, but that rarely ever happens!

Mayor: Are you listening to yourself? You're a psycho!

GM: Would a psycho have these? [pulls out a handful of pigeons coated in motor oil and lashed together with dental floss]

Mayor: I think it's safe to say yes. Plus, if you haven't noticed, your assistant is a mangy old dog.

GM: Watch what you say about my wife, asshole!

Mayor: I've had just about enough of this, Garbage Man M.D.. I want you to stop practicing street medicine and get back to your real job---picking up garbage.
[Garbage Man M.D. scowls and turns to leave. The Mayor takes a bite out of his ribblet sandwich and then quickly clutches his chest]
My God! I'm having a heart attack!
[Garbage Man M.D. looks back but just shakes his head and continues to walk]
Garbage Man M.D., please save me! I'm dying.
[Garbage Man M.D. stops but doesn't turn around]

GM: Save you like you saved my daughter?

Mayor: [gasping for breath] No, Garbage Man M.D., that was an accident! I tried to help her with that harpoon gun. I wanted her to grab onto it and have me pull her back to the boat, not have it rip through her face!

GM: Perhaps. But I guess we'll never know. Now please...just die. I have hobo abortions to perform. [straightening his prostitute skin jacket he steps from the room and out of view]

THE END, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Sorry! I've Been Promoted!

My reign as the Ultimate Sorry! Champion lives on after a grueling five game series last night. The evening began with Jon coming out to a 2-0 start, but I skillfully rebounded to pull off the overall win by sweeping the last three games.

I must say that Sorry! is quite the amazing board game. It combines the mystique of Parcheesi but succeeds in liberating it from it's Yahtzee-like dice rolling, while integrating the colorful magnificence and superficial apologies of say, Pop-o-matic Trouble, and the space-age translucent playing pieces reminiscent of, well, space.

Anyways, I am now a teaching assistant (TA) for the Physics Department for the second semester in a row and I must say I am quite excited. Last semester was spectacular but the mechanics labs that I led were a little dull. Professor KB was a good guy and I'm somewhat sad to see him go, but I realize I'm now going on to bigger and better things.

Yes, and so it is with great pride that I say goodbye to Introductory Physics I, and give a hearty hello to Introductory Physics II. So long mechanics, pleased to meet you electromagnetism and optics. Nice knowing you Professor KB, and let me introduce to you now, the greatest of all the physics professors at Allegheny College, and the man who will supervise the labs I run.....

Ph.D. from Dartmouth...
Enjoys nuclear physics and sprinkled doughnuts...
Walks with a limp...
Fan of homestarrunner.com...
Thinks I'm awesome...

You guessed it, it's DR. DAN WILLEY!!!

Well I'm too excited to write anything else so...

Rob out.

Fast Times in Claim Area G

Most of yesterday was spent hiding in the corner of an abandoned baggage claim at Pittsburgh International Airport while watching episodes of The Simpsons on my laptop. I stopped briefly to pick up a $10 wrap from the refrigerated shelving unit at the Pennsylvania version of Au Bon Pan, which distinguishes itself from other Au Bon Pans because of the fact that the Pennsylvania version decided not to upgrade to the fully functional, working model of a restaurant. The actual sandwich making service was unavailable because of understaffing as well as because the ovens, breads, cheeses, and other essentials were all cardboard replicas of real items. Not unlike what you find in Ikea, where they furnish their office settings with plastic televisions and computers that are merely painted to look like their functional counterparts and which can be lifted easily without effort and tossed back and forth between good friends on a Saturday plagued by unexpected rainfall, boredom, and a lack of individuals who can come up with good activity ideas. These situations are usually free of mishaps but on the off chance you pick up a real computer used by employees and drop it due to the unexpected weight things can get a little messy, in which case (when it happened to me) I fled and skipped my usual $1 vanilla ice cream cone from the snack bar.

Nevertheless, the wrap was tasty enough and it was accompanied by a large blueberry yogurt made crunchy by the complimentary granola presented to me at time of payment. Uneventful, though, my lengthy stay at the Pitt'n'Port was not. My mysteriousness coupled with the fact that people often mistake me for an A-rab, which, when occurring, I kindly explain that their racial slur was perfectly valid because my family does in fact hail from Lebanon, caused me unwanted attention in the form of a security guard stationed in my vicinity and a strange "old woman" who asked me where the baggage claim to "retrieve lost sweaters" was located.

I had my bag searched again. I really think I should have been given a "Frequent Searchee" card by now but perhaps it was lost in the mail. They say that the searches are random but I've taken my fair share of logic and probability courses at both the high school and undergraduate level and I think that being searched 16 times out of 16 (that's in the past two years) is just slightly unheard of considering the vast number of people who travel by air in any given time period and the fact that none of my friends or family of friends have ever been searched.

Well, I have nothing more to say at this point in time. Perhaps at a later date I will return.

Ushapti

Here's To You, My Favorite Cousin

Kate passed away this morning after battling her cancer for almost four months. Of all my cousins she was the one I was always closest to, not just because of our age, but because we were so much the same. I can't even imagine what it's going to be like without her. But I guess I need to think of what's best for Kate, and perhaps this is better than what she's had for the last few months. She celebrated her 20th birthday in the hospital. She woke up on Christmas in a hospital bed in her house barely able to move her arms or keep her eyes open. She didn't know that we spent the entire day by her side.

But anyway, she wouldn't have wanted this sob story. So in memoriam, here's a video clip of Kate stopping a shot like she doesn't even care.

She's Like A Wall
(It'll take a bit to load completely, so stick it out)

At The Museum With Rosemary's Baby

I'm An Officer, Officer

Me: "Son of a bitch."
Beth: "You're an antifeminist aren't you?"
Jon: "Huh."
Sarah: *giggling thing she does*
Laura: "Congratulations."

What do these quotes have in common? They're the reactions I got after people found out I'm the newest secretary of Alpha Phi Omega.

Whoop-dee-doo.

Good Morning Mister Blue

I wrote this poem yesterday. Part 1 is supposed to be read as quickly as possible and Part 2 can be read fast too, but it'll be more emotional if you slow it down. Anyway, enjoy.

GOOD MORNING MISTER BLUE
a poem by Rob

Part 1

A sock is a sock unless it's a sock,
Unless it's a sock that's a sock that's a sock.
But you Mister Blue, not a sock but a sock,
Not a sock but a sock through and through.

And you?
And you Mister Blue?
And you Mister Blue is this true?

The dryer on STOP with my clothes up on top,
That freshman I caught and his things in my spot,
I took all my stuff off the dryer top
"Huff"
Was the sound that I made as I prayed and I prayed
That my things that I brings to my room all in gloom
Would be there wrapped with care as I stare--stare in there--
In the bag with my clothes as I sag
With the weight of the hate and the pain and disdain
He's so vain to have taken my clothes out but he'll feel my bane
'Cause I stopped his dumb dryer half-cycle, half-cocked,
I'm happy--so happy--my actions just rocked!

But alas. Pains my ass.
Not quite even. Downright odd.
5...6...7? Where's my eight?
Fuckin' great.

Part 2

Good morning Mister Blue, this shoe?
Oh yes, that's true, this shoe's for you.
The zoo? Of course.
If that is what you'd like to do,
Come let us zoo and zoo and zoo.

But not today, no zoo for you,
You've gone you've left it's toodle-oo.
I don't know how I don't know when,
My Blue shall we not meet again?

I searched and searched but came up bare,
I searched the trash, I searched in there.
The floor, the sink, the skating rink
I even stopped for a mixed drink.

Now drunk I never faltered once,
I kept my vigilance amongst.
The alcohol runs through my veins,
Passed softly yet my heart still pains.

I never once gave up the hope
But soon I found I lived to mope.
The sadness permeates my soul
And where you were now lies a hole.

A sock hole, yes. Ironic, no?
You've left your other half, your bro.
My foot is cold, frostbitten toe,
And where you lie I shalln't know.

I only dream you've found a place
Amongst your kind, the "Lost Sock Race."
Perhaps one day we'll meet again,
When now is past and then was then.

Until that day I'll wait for you,
There is no thing I'd rather do.
And when that day comes when we meet,
I shall caress you on my feet.

But nothing will be quite as sweet
As when we greet when we first meet.
I'll take you in my hands anew
And be one thing I'll say to you:

"From you to me, from me to you,
A smile, a tear, a hug for two.
I wish you'd never said adieu,
I love you love you Mister Blue."